Apathy Can Save Your Life
by T.S. Quint
Summary: When Freddy Krueger entered the dreams of seventeen year old Michael Monroe, there was one thing he hadn't counted on: the unshakeable, angst-ridden power of teenaged apathy. Oneshot.


**Author's note:**Hello, folks! Just thought I'd fill you in on a few details before you dig into this bad boy. First of all, you should probably know that this story is marginally connected to my larger _Nightmare _fic, _Nightmare House_. In fact, this story originally started out as the fourth chapter for that series, but as I wrote it, it became further and further removed from the tone of the rest of the story. Namely, this story is played mainly for laughs, while the tone of _Nightmare House_ is much more serious. But, I liked this idea too much to simply scrap it, so it became its own oneshot. (There's actually another scrapped chapter of Nightmare House, that revolves around Jason Voorhees, that I may retool into a _Friday the 13__th _fic, I haven't decided yet.)

I've tried to write it in a manner so that you don't HAVE to have read _Nightmare House _to follow it, so those of you that haven't read that particular story, fear not... though, I mean, you might as well go and read it (and review it!!!) after this. There are a few references to it, and I'm sure you'll be curious to find out more. Plus, it's not like you're doing anything else, right?

On the flip side, those of you who have been faithfully following _Nightmare House_ (namely you, Darkness Takes Over) don't necessarily have to read this story, as it doesn't really progress the narrative of _Nightmare House_ at all. But again... it's not like you have anything better to do, so why not? Right? Right?!

Anywho, I tried my damndest to keep this thing in the T rated department, but I just use the F word to damned much, plus there's a scene that get's pretty sexy at one point. Briefly, and not too explicitly, but enough. So, M rated it is, mostly for language and sexiness. It also takes place on the same night as chapters 2 and 3 of _Nightmare House_.

Enjoy.

"**Apathy Can Save Your Life"**

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------**

"_Oh, somebody kill me please! Somebody kill me please! I'm on my knees, pretty pretty please! Kill me! I want to die! Put a bullet in my eye! Oh, kill me!"_

_--Robbie Hart, "The Wedding Singer"_

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------**

_Fall, 2010..._

"Good Lord!" Billy Hudson put his Ford Focus in park as he pulled up to the curb at 1431 Elm Street. Michael Monroe, in the seat next to him, didn't react to his friend's exclamation. He just stared out the passenger's window, a blank, faraway expression on his face. Across the street, an armada of police cars were parked helter skelter in front of the dilapidated mess that was 1428 Elm Street. The orange construction fencing that had recently replaced the house's rotten, white picket fence, had in turn been replaced by yellow "Crime Scene" tape. Two ambulances were parked at the curb, in between them, a police car marked "Springwood Sheriff's Department" stood. An older looking cop (the sheriff, presumably) leaned against the car's hood looking worried. In the back of one of the ambulances, a skinny, punk-rock looking chick with purple hair sat with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a look of shock on her face.

"Sheezus", Billy said, glancing over at the passenger seat. Michael still refused to stir, or acknowledge what Billy was staying. He just continued to star out his window. Billy sighed.

It was two o'clock in the morning on a Friday night (technically, Saturday morning.) Billy and Michael had just come back from a bonfire at Tom Shackler's place, out in the farmland's on Springwood's outskirts. Sort of a pre-homecoming party, exclusively being thrown for the seniors at Springwood High. Billy and Michael, though not necessarily on the highest rungs of the social ladder of Springwood High, had garnered invites, simply because they weren't really on anybody's bad side in their class. Socially, they rested comfortably in the middle, getting along with smatterings of kids from every group, Billy commonly being known as the "smart one," while Michael was normally known as the "funny one." At least until recently.

A week previously, Melanie, Michael's girlfriend of three years, unceremoniously dumped him. Billy hadn't realized the depths of self-pity his friend was capable of reaching until this particular event, but damn had it turned out to be legendary. Michael's entire personality changed. He just moped, and sighed, and looked as sad as he possibly could at all times, particularly when Melanie was within shouting distance. Everything always had to be so big and over the top with Michael's sense of humor. Apparently that went double for his depressions. Billy looked over at his friend, who looked particularly angsty at the moment, with his shaggy, sandy blonde hair dangling in his face, and his brown, corduroy jacket pulled tightly around himself. Billy leaned toward Michael, the light from a nearby street lamp reflecting off his own, shiny, pitch black hair, and faux leather jacket.

"Yo, dude... you seeing this out the window. At the house you, ya know, live across the street from?"

Michael finally looked up and slowly glanced out the window at the scene in front of 1428. A man in a bathrobe and slippers had joined the sheriff, and appeared to be engaged in a rather heated discussion with the officer.

"Cool," he said simply, before turning back toward his window and slumping forward, allowing his head to thump against the glass.

Billy sighed. "Cool? That it? Dude, it looks like a friggin' circus over there. What do you think happened?"

Michael's eyes flitted back over to the scene briefly. "That ambulance says 'cororner'. Guessin' someone died."

"And, you don't find that to be interesting in the slightest?"

"Nope."

Billy sighed. "Alright, Mikey. I know you and Melanie were close, or whatever, but you can't keep acting like this."

"Acting like what?" Michael still refused to look up.

"Like nothing in the world fucking matters." Billy shook his head. "I mean look at you! It's pathetic. I took you to Shack's place tonight, expecting it to cheer you up, but all you did was sit there and heave sighs whenever you thought Melanie was close enough to hear you! You gotta snap out of this, dude. Yeah, she dumped you, but life fuckin' goes on!"

"Unfortunately..." Michael muttered. Billy leaned toward him at this, his eyes widening.

"Mikey... buddy... you're not gonna do anything stupid 'cause of this are you?"

Michael looked up finally. "What, you mean like slashing my wrists and writing a letter addressed to Melanie in my own blood about how she ruined my life, before getting in the bathtub and letting myself bleed to death, while 'Don't Fear The Reaper' plays on my CD player on repeat?"

Billy stared at Michael wide eyed for a long, long moment, before finally speaking. "Yeah. Like that."

Again, Michael allowed his head to thump against the window. "Nope. Don't really have the drive for that particular action at the moment."

Billy wanted to believe that this was his friend's attempt at being humorous. But it was awfully dark for his typical whimsical style. "Are you gonna be alright tonight, dude?"

Michael sighed. "I'm not gonna try to off myself, Billy, don't worry about it. I'm not completely pathetic. Alright?"

Billy looked at him for a long moment, before nodding slowly. "Alright. Well... I hate to kick you out of my car, but... it's fuckin' late. You sure you're gonna be okay?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah. Super."

Billy sighed. "Alright, dude. I'll call ya tomorrow, we'll chill."

Michael nodded again, not looking at his friend. He slowly opened the car door, and got out of the car.

"Have a good-" Michael shut the door in Billy's face, cutting him off. "...night." Billy sighed to himself, before putting his car in drive, and pulling away from the curb.

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Michael walked slowly up to his front porch, fumbling in his pocket for his keys. He stopped at the front door, sifting through the collection on his key-ring trying to find house key in the little light that the nearby street lamp provided, when he heard voices carrying from across the street.

"Who is Freddy?"

Michael glanced over his shoulder. The voice belonged to the purple haired girl in the back of the ambulance. She was addressing the sheriff, who once again stood by himself, apparently having finished his discussion/argument with the man in the bathrobe.

"I'm sorry?" the sheriff asked.

"Freddy..." the girl replied. "The... words on the wall in the house... they said something about someone named Freddy. Do you know who that is?"

Boring. Though the name Freddy seemed vaguely familiar to Michael for some reason, he really wasn't interested in a name game conversation between a cop and some stoner-looking chick at two in the morning when his heart felt like someone had filled it with glass and given it a good talking to with the business end of a hammer. He unlocked the front door, and walked inside.

The interior of his house was dark, and combined with the fact that Michael's mind was elsewhere at the moment, it wasn't surprising that he accidentally kicked the small table that sat in the foyer near the front door. The table on which his parents usually left the junk mail. Michael groaned as he heard several envelopes fall. He fumbled for the hallway light switch, before finally managing to find it, and flipping the lights on.

At least ten envelopes had fallen off the table, and onto the sleek, hardwood floor of the hallway, right in front of the coat closet. Michael sighed, picking them up. About half were marked "YOU COULD ALREADY BE A WINNER!!!!" (was that many exclamation points really necessary?) and were addressed to his parents. The others, surprise, surprise, were addressed to 1428 Elm Street. For some reason, whenever mail came for 1428, rather than take it back to the post-office and throw it into the "undeliverable" bin, the mailman just stuffed it in _their_ mailbox. Like he was afraid to keep it with him or something. Everybody seemed fucking afraid of that stupid house across the street, and Michael had no idea why.

Okay, so there had been that pretty nasty murder there... what was that, back in 5th grade? 6th grade maybe? Something like the Fall of 2003? Seven years ago. Big friggin' whoop.

And, okay, so maybe there'd apparently been another death there tonight. Who cared?

Michael casually glanced at the people the 1428 junk mail was addressed to. "Congratulations, Dr. Roy Campbell, YOU COULD ALREADY BE A WINNER!!!!" "Congratulations, Lori Campbell, you qualify for an American Express Gold Card!" "To Mr. and Mrs. Fred Krueger, or Current Resident: Have you seen this child?" The picture on the missing child postcard showed a little blonde-haired girl in pig-tails. Courtney, aged 8, apparently.

Michael paused. Mr. and Mrs. Fred Krueger?

_"Freddy...the... words on the wall in the house... they said something about someone named Freddy. Do you know who that is?"_

Okay, so some douche named Freddy had lived in 1428 Elm Street, and carved his name on the wall before he moved out. Sounded like a douchey thing to do, but the name Fred Krueger sounded like a big douche-bag name anyway. This must've been why the name sounded familiar to him. They'd probably gotten his fucking junk mail before. It didn't mean anything. Michael didn't know why the name struck such a deep chord with him, but it aggravated him to no end that it did. He didn't have time to think about some ass named Fred Krueger at the moment. He just wanted to go upstairs and get some sleep. Sleep was his only escape from the incredibly stupid and pointless world in which he currently resided. His only escape from the world in which _she_ resided. The world she mocked him in ceaselessly with her... breaking-up-with-him-ness

"God damn, Melanie." Michael muttered to himself. Even saying her name hurt. He tossed the junk mail back onto the little table, before slowly trudging up the stairs to his room.

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Michael snapped awake at the sound of someone screaming. He quickly glanced over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The red digits flashed "6:66 a.m." Who the fuck was screaming at 6:66 in the God damned morning?

Michael's aggravation faltered somewhat when he thought about that for a moment. 6:66? There _was_ no 6:66! He glanced back at the clock. Sure enough "6:66 a.m." flashed back at him.

"Fucking busted clock." he muttered, rolling over, and closing his eyes again.

For a moment, all was silent. Then, the door to Michael's room slowly creaked open. A small blonde-haired little girl, in a blue dress and pigtails, shambled in. And there was something very wrong with her.

The skin on her forearms was slashed and cut, her outstretched hands caked in dried blood. Her eyelids had been cut off, her eyes wide, bloodshot, and staring. Her cheeks had been raggedly slashed through, from the sides of her mouth, all the way to her ears, giving her face a grotesque, permanent grin.

"One... two... Freddy's comin' for you..." she rasped.

Michael didn't react. The little dead girl paused, tilting her head. Perhaps he hadn't heard her. She shambled to the foot of his bed.

"Three... four... better lock the door..." she rasped louder. Still no response.

The dead girl huffed impatiently, and shambled as quickly as she could, until she was standing directly in front of Michael's face. Were his eyes not closed, they'd be staring at each other, face-to-face.

"Five... six... grab your crucifix!" she rasped louder still. Michael still didn't stir. The little girl growled. She was losing patience. She took a deep breath and bellowed, "SEVEN... EIGHT... BETTER-"

Michael sat up, and slugged her as hard as he could with his pillow. She went down on the ground, hard.

"Shut the fuck up!" Michael yelled. "I'm trying to fuckin' sleep, alright?!"

The little girl sat up sharply. "What are you, stupid?" she snarled. "You _are_ fucking asleep! You're dreaming, assbag! And Freddy Krueger's going to..." she trailed off as Michael got out of bed and grabbed her by the elbow. He hauled her to her feet and began dragging her toward the window. "What're you doing?"

"I'm dreaming, right?" he asked. He opened the window with his free hand. Outside, an endless black void stretched off in all directions. "So I have no reason to feel guilty for doing _this_!"

"Doing what? What're you-" before the little girl could finish, Michael picked her up, and unceremoniously dumped her out the window. He slammed it shut behind her, turned around, and flopped back down on his bed, curling up, and closing his eyes again.

For a moment, all was silent... then his door creaked open again. Michael sighed deeply, and sat up. "Look, you-" what he saw caused him to stop short.

Melanie, the girl that had broken his heart, stood leaning in the doorway. And what a sight she was to behold! Her long, curly blonde hair was down, cascading past her shoulders. She wore a tiny, two sizes two small white, baby-t shirt, that hugged her form tightly, accentuating her not inconsiderable breasts and exposing her entire midsection, just below her ribcage. And aside from a hip-hugging, lacy black thong, she wore nothing else. A seductive grin was sprawled across her face. Her right hand was behind her back, her left resting on her upper thigh.

"Good evening, Michael," she purred. Slowly, she sauntered across the bedroom,, swaying her smooth, exposed hips, until she stood at the foot of Michael's bed. Her right hand remained behind her back. Her left was at her waist now, her thumb hooked through the waistband of her thong, pulling it down slightly on the left side "How are you, lover?"

Michael's look of shock began to fade. Melanie never wore her hair down. Michael had loved it when she did, in fact, mostly because she more often than not always insisted on keeping it tied up. She was also something of a prude. She never would have worn a shirt that exposed her stomach, which she always complained about not being flat enough, and Michael didn't think she'd have ever been caught dead wearing a thong, even _under_ her pants. Clearly, this wasn't actually Melanie. It was just an idealized, fantasy version Michael's subconscious had cooked up. His id, or his libido, or whatever the fuck housed subconscious, sexual desire. After all, he _was_ dreaming. He leaned back against his pillow, and sighed.

"Fuck off and let me sleep in peace, you whorish figment of my imagination. I'm not in the mood right now."

The dream-Melanie chuckled at this. She sprang up onto the bed, and lowered herself into a straddling position on Michael's lap. "What's wrong, lover? Don't you want me?"

"Nope. Want sleep. Peaceful sleep."

"Awww...," The dream-Melanie crooned. "What's the matter, Mikey..." she suddenly drew her right hand from behind her back and brandished it above her head. On it, was what looked like an old, dirty work glove, with long razors attached to the fingers. Melanie's voice suddenly became deep, gravelly, and decidedly male. "Don't like doin' it with girls? HAW HAHAHAHAHAAA-"

Michael grabbed her by the thighs and pulled up, dumping her backwards off the foot of the bed. She hit the floor with a thump and a curse. Michael laid back down.

What stood up in the place where Melanie had fallen was most certainly not Melanie. It was a man, a horribly disfigured man, every exposed inch of whom seemed covered in hideous, third-degree burns. He wore a ratty, red and green sweater, dirty brown, oil-stained slacks, and a dusty brown fedora on his head. His face was contorted in anger. He wore the same bladed glove on his right hand Melanie had been wearing.

"What do think this is, boy?" Freddy Krueger snarled. "A game?! Do you know who I fucking am?!"

"No." Michael said simply. His eyes were closed.

"That's right!" Freddy sneered. "I'm-" his sneer vanished suddenly, as Michael's response sunk in. "No? Whaddya mean no?"

"I have no idea who you are." Michael sighed. "And I really don't care. Go away."

"Uh uh, punk!" Freddy waggled a clawed finger at Michael. "That ain't the way this works! I'm in control here! And you musta heard of me at some point, or I wouldn't _be _here!"

Michael sat up slowly, and looked Freddy up and down. "Well, the sweater's very festive, though you're a few months early. The claws and the ass-ugly face are a little out of place. Are you some kinda, fucked up Todd McFarlane Christmas character or something? The Holiday Spawn?"

"Always with the fuckin' Christmas jokes." Freddy flicked a finger, and Michael's bed bucked violently to the left, dumping the teenager onto the floor, with a loud thud.

"Ow!" Michael stood quickly, rubbing his backside. "What the fuck, man?"

"You need to stop playin' dumb, Mikey boy." Freddy said, slowly stepping forward, a toothy, rotten grin spreading across his face. "You know who I am. They all know who I am, they've just tried to bury me! But I'll remind 'em soon enough. Freddy Krueger don't stay buried!"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "Wait. You're Fred Krueger? The douche that used to live across the street and carved his name on the wall?"

Freddy stopped. "What? I didn't fuckin' carve my name on the wall! I painted it! In blood! The blood of two fuckin' junky brats that were stupid enough to wander into my house tonight! Their souls gave me power... not much, but enough to start slowly influencing the areas close to home. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Freddy glanced around the room now. "Yeah, I remember this place. I've been here before you know. Almost thirty years ago, I sucked this fuckin' loser named Glen into his own bed in this very room and... what the hell're you doing?!"

Michael had gotten back into bed. "Ignoring you and going back to sleep. All I want to do is fucking sleep. I've been dealing with nothing but bullshit lately in my waking life, I really don't need to be dealing with it while I'm asleep. Now fuck off!"

Michael rolled over, turning his back on Freddy... who suddenly appeared directly in front of him. He flicked open his claws directly in front of Michael's face.

"I already told you it don't fuckin' work like that!"

Michael eyed Freddy's brandished claw up and down. "Ya know, you keep waving that God damned thing around. I have a cat named Mr. Wiggles who does the same thing. It's not really that scary, man." he closed his eyes.

Freddy snarled. "That's it, you stupid prick!" He slashed his claws across Michaels face.

Nothing happened. No claw marks appeared. Not even a scratch. Michael didn't even open his eyes to see what was going on.

Freddy roared in frustration. "What... the... FUCK?!? Why won't this _work_?! First I couldn't hurt that naked whore across the street, despite the fact that I sent that blonde bitch out to spread my name two fuckin' weeks ago! And now, even with two fresh souls, I still can't affect the Dreamworld?! It doesn't make any sense! That bitch in the black dress said I'd be able to start influencing at least the dreams of the brats on Elm Street by now!"

"I really wish you'd go away and stop talking about shit I don't understand or fucking care about." Michael rolled over, and covered his head with his pillow. This was starting to become too much like being awake. And just like when he was awake, thoughts of Melanie were beginning to drown everything else out. And he really didn't want that to happen. And he was pretty sure it was the ugly Christmas fucker's fault.

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Freddy growled low in his throat, unsure what to do next. This kid clearly knew of him, or had at least heard his name. Freddy wouldn't have been able to appear in his dreams if he hadn't. It was true his powers were still exceedingly limited. He still didn't have full reign over the entirety of Springwood (though that would soon change, thanks to that Rory bitch), but he _had _managed to boost his powers tonight with the souls of those two idiot junkies that had fallen asleep after fucking each other stupid in _his_ house. He had assumed, had been _told_, that this would have expanded his influence enough to allow him to begin appearing in the dreams of the children on Elm Street, especially in houses where he'd killed before... like 1431. Not that he'd trusted that bitch in black who'd told him all this any further than he could throw her.

Well, not even that far. Seeing as how the two of them only existed in the Dreamworld, he could probably throw her pretty far.

But even on top of that, this kid _knew _his name, had said so himself. For all intents and purposes he should be able to torture the kid. To feed off his fear and make himself strong enough to kill!

So what wasn't working?

Krueger glanced back down at the kid, who was now laying on his stomach, with his pillow over his head. And that's when it dawned on him.

The kid wasn't afraid. At all. Freddy had managed to glean a few facts off of the surface of the kid's psyche, and found out that he'd recently been dumped by some curly haired blonde whore named Melanie. That was how Freddy knew to appear as her.

And apparently this kid, this fucking Michael idiot, was so absorbed with her and with being dumped by her, that he didn't care about anything else. Including whether or not he lived or died.

Ironically, Michael's apathy toward his own life was what was saving it right now.

"God damned, self-absorbed teenagers," Freddy muttered to himself. He hated irony. Well, that wasn't true, normally he loved it. But he hated it when it turned on him like this. Tonight was a complete waste. He'd used a lot of energy to get himself this far, and now he'd have to return to 1428, and try to focus his power before he could enter any more dreams. And by the time he did that, the sun would be up, and most of the babes of Elm Street would be awake and watching their Saturday morning cartoons. Oh well. Maybe he could snag a toddler during naptime or something. Toddlers were easy as hell to scare. And they were the most fun, anyway. "I'm fuckin' outta here. Thanks for wasting my time, prick."

"Thanks for being an asshole, asshole." Michael replied, his voice muffled by his pillow.

Freddy bared his teeth, and almost responded, but then decided not to bother. It really was time to get the hell out of here. He flicked his wrist... and nothing happened.

"What the hell?" He tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. "Oh, God _dammit_!"

Michael sighed deeply and dramatically from below his pillow. "I thought you were leaving."

"I'm trying!" Freddy snapped. "It's not fucking working! I must have expended more energy than I thought trying to get here. Now I can't get back... unless you wake up!"

Michael finally brought his head back from under his pillow. He looked over his shoulder, glaring at Krueger. "What? Fuck you, I'm not waking up! It's hard enough for me to sleep these days as it is."

"You can go right back to sleep," Freddy said. "I don't give a fuck! Just wake up now so I can get out of here!"

"No! If I wake up now, I know I won't be able to get back to sleep! You got yourself into this, now you deal with it!"

"I can't, you little retard, or I would have by now! Now fucking _wake up_!"

"Kiss my ass!"

Freddy wrung his hands in the air. "God, I wish I could kill you right now!"

"Yeah well, if wishes were fishes, we'd... uh..." Michael shook his head. "I dunno, man, just, fuckin' deal with it, okay? Life sucks all around right now, if I have to deal with it, so do you. So does everyone."

"Jesus Christ, listen to the little nancy boy," Freddy growled. "Boohoo, I'm a fuckin' sixteen year old wiener-baby, my girlfriend dumped me, I'll never get over it, my life is over. WAAAAAHH!"

"Up yours, douche!" Michael sat up now. "You don't know anything! First of all, I'm seventeen, not sixteen. Secondly, you couldn't possibly know what we had. I was with this beautiful, wonderful girl for three years... and now, it's over."

"Big fuckin' deal." Freddy crossed his arms. "I was married for ten years!"

"Pffft, yeah right."

"I was! We had a daughter and everything!"

"Oh yeah? What happened to them?"

"I strangled my wife to death after she broke into the room in our basement where I tortured small children to death. Then my daughter told the cops, and I got arrested."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Uhhh...wow dude, that's... not even close to the same thing."

"Psh, sure it was. I was fond of 'em both. Kinda. At least my daughter. Of course that was before she blew me up with a pipe bomb. And I am planning on ruining her life and eventually killing her." He waved a claw dismissively at Michael. "Bah, you wouldn't fuckin' get family stuff, you're too young."

"Yeah. I'm too young. That's why I don't get your psycho family values." Michael shook his head.

Freddy threw his hands up in the air. "Why am I even talking to you about this shit! Wake the fuck up!"

"You know, you came in here disguised as a naked version of my ex-girlfriend." Michael said suddenly. "That says all sorts of weird ass things about you, man!"

"Hey! I was just trying to get your defenses lowered so I could kill you!" Freddy replied. "That's all!"

"Whatever you say, man." Michael shook his head again. "Fuckin' Freudian or Jungian shit, or something."

Freddy walked over to the nearest wall and began banging his head against it. Maybe he could kill himself. He'd lose the two souls he collected tonight, but he'd respawn back in 1428, and be out of this whiny little fucktard's head. That really sounded like an even trade right about now.

Without warning, a mammoth ringing noise rose up all around them. The room began shaking.

"What the fuck is that?" cried Michael. Everything was becoming hazy and hard to see.

Freddy let out a sigh of relief. "Thank the fucking Lord."

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Michael shot awake. The void outside his window was gone, the low light of dawn seeping in through the sparsely covered tree branches on the other side. The ringing was still going off, still loud, but no longer room shaking.

It was his alarm clock. Michael reached over and smacked the snooze button. The clock read "6:30 a.m." Clearly he'd forgotten to turn off the alarm he normally set for school, before falling asleep last night. And now he was awake at 6:30 on a Saturday, after having gone to sleep at 2:00 a.m. Four hours of sleep. Fucking wonderful.

And that dream! The little dead girl he threw out the window, a naked version of Melanie morphing into some psycho killer Christmas creature with an overgrown cat claw on his hand. What a fucking stupid dream! How the hell does someone even _have _a dream that stupid?

"God, life is fucking stupid." Michael muttered to himself. He rolled over, and closed his eyes.

He knew he wasn't getting back to sleep.


End file.
